Shadow
by Gentle Breezes
Summary: Snow crunches underneath armored boots blacker than the night. A pair of feet belonging to an enemy of someone out in the world goes unchecked in the wilds and passes within twenty feet of you. Told from the point of view of a wayward hunter who catches a glimpse of the Dovahkiin traveling through Falkreath's forests.


**Disclaimer: **Elder Scrolls: Skyrim belongs to Bethesda, not me.

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The night is quiet. The only sound you hear is that of your own breathing and the wind howling down from the Jerall Mountains.

You should be asleep; your companions at Hunter's Rest had told you so. You've much to help hunt for tomorrow and you're already tired from the previous day. But tonight is no night for sleep. The air is crisp and fresh with the balsam of firs and newly-fallen snow. Above your head, the moon hangs full and watchful, drenching the land in a cold, wakeful light. Not a single creature stirs, but the land feels alive down to the very last leaf, as if the gods themselves were roaming Nirn in the flesh, making things happen with their own hands instead of from afar. To sleep this night away would be to waste it.

Moving an arrow to your bow with no sound — you have lived as a hunter for many years — you quietly thank Kynareth for the abundance of her nature, which were it otherwise, would have deprived you of your trade, and your father's trade, and so on. Overhead you spot a stag, blissfully unaware of your presence as it tries to root out food.

The snow under your feet barely crunches as you sidle up to a tree, sucking in a breath as you draw your bowstring. You take no joy in bloodshed, nor do you kill for no reason. But you have always enjoyed the thrill of the hunt, the rush of blood pumping through your body as you line up a perfect shot. It is just you, your prey, and the stillness of nature. Nothing else matters.

You take a step forward to adjust your aim, and to your dismay there is a crack. A broken twig is all it takes to ruin a hunt. That much is apparent because the stag is now staring right at you. Wasting no time, the stag turns and makes for the safety of the thick woods, and you let out a disappointed sigh.

Just as you are looking at your feet to see if there were any twigs or branches buried in the snow, the sudden crunching of snow within your proximity commands your attention, and on instinct you sidle back behind your tree. If anything it's probably one of your companions coming to take you back off the the cabin. You keep hidden anyway.

Nothing appears at first. But then, very slowly, your eyes adjust more in the dark to see a figure passing between the trees, striding evenly without any indication of stopping.

You've heard the stories. When there had been knights in Skyrim long ago, they were rare and usually working for the Empire. But it has been long since the Empire had any such people. Now, in a time when Cyrodiil's Hero of Kvatch has no more meaning and The Blades are naught but a sundered collection of beheaded men, there are legionnaires and legates, not knights. Even the housecarls of jarls and thanes, criticized and praised for being attached to the past, wear only pieces of the armor once donned by these fighters of old. But _here_ is a knight, flitting in and out of the shadows of the trees like a ghost, covered from head to toe with ornate armor so dark that it sends a shiver down your spine.

There is only one person in all of Skyrim now who wears armor like this.

You swallow hard. Yes, you've heard the stories. Some say that the knight can fight dragons one on one and win using just their voice. Others say this knight is a merciless killer who cares nothing for the lives of innocents, and uses people only as a means to an end. Some say this isn't a knight at all, and the armor is a disguise for a thief or a mage or necromancer. Others still say this one has ties with the Dark Brotherhood, and will brings justice to all who are deemed unfit to live any longer. Man or woman, human or no, it is impossible to tell at this distance, and the stories have conveniently left these little details out.

A solitary figure in the forests of Falkreath, the Dominion would likely never think to look for the Dragonborn at this hour. They like the safety of their embassy, with their fine wines and books that say Talos is just a man and therefore not worth their time. The Dragonborn is just a mortal, yet seems to be worth _ever _so much of their time. A humorous contradiction.

The rhythmic crunches of snow sound off loudly underneath armored boots blacker than the night. A pair of feet belonging to an enemy of someone out in the world goes unchecked in the wilds, passing within twenty feet of you.

Perhaps he, she, _it_, can sense you and simply chooses not to acknowledge you. Perhaps you cannot be sensed because you hope to Stendarr your skill in keeping quiet is as good as your father told you it was. You take not chances with either, not moving and barely breathing as the crunch of snow grows louder and louder, and then softer again. When they have grown just soft enough, you dare to glance around the tree trunk. The knight clad in black is still walking onward, back now turned to you as they make for the imposing mountains for reasons or doom unknown to you.

You suddenly find your heart seized with a strange purpose and panic, and you draw your bow, finding that the arrow meant for the stag is now pointing at the back of the figure's head. You could shoot right now, and the world may well be rid of a menace. You might even be congratulated, given reward for killing a vigilante, praised by Imperial or Stormcloak alike. The allure of fame and wealth for a poor hunter such as yourself is strong.

But you might also be ridding the world of a being who fights only to see the next day, or a possible hero to some mother whose son lives because this was their savior. Or maybe your arrow would do nothing except make the figure turn around, stare at you from behind that helmet, and then move on. Perhaps the figure might remove their helmet to show you furious eyes at your indiscretion, or sorrow at your betrayal, or a terrifying face with and with rending scream. Or perhaps you'd find a salvation in an ever-forgiving person who dared to sacrifice everything just to save without thanks.

It is fear that stops you; fear of things that you do and do not know. Your indecision makes your fingers twitch and your mind tumble, until at last you turn to the blatant guidance of Akatosh that says it is not good to murder.

You withdraw your arrow slowly, trembling, and the figure walks on, unaware of what has just transpired. With a thundering heart and shaky breath, you watch the figure's cloak whip in the wind.

The crunch of snow now goes softly into the distance in time with the feet of the unknown, and above a cloud passes over, blotting the landscape in shadow for just a moment.

When the moonlight shines once more, the Dragonborn is gone. Sleep does not come to you that night.

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**A/N: **Usually stories are written from the perspective of the main characters themselves, maybe a companion. I thought it would be interesting to see things from the perspective of a bystander who knows nothing of the Dragonborn and the dragons and so on. Just a regular denizen of Skyrim grappling with the usual things like making a living and discerning right from wrong based on what has been heard versus what feels right.

This was meant to be more of a sensory thing, so I hope I did alright on that. I also made the Dragonborn as unspecific as I could, though I know they are depicted as wearing ebony armor in this one. I suppose that if your Dovahkiin doesn't wear armor, it could just be a disguise. ...Also, everyone knows that once you max out a skill you just move to the next one, so this Dovahkiin might very well be trying to max out the heavy armor skills. :D

Thank you for reading!


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